


Progression

by sparxwrites



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Trans Character, Trans man Washington
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2125908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why d’you never take your helmet off?” asks Tucker, during a particularly brutal leg day.</p><p>“That’s none of your business, Private Tucker,” says Wash, stiffly. “Another two laps. Come on.”</p><p>(In which Washington is a trans man who's never had the chance to transition; and finds understanding, support, and a pair of unlikely friends in his teammates.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Progression

**Author's Note:**

> a little thing that turned into a big thing, based off of [this](http://sparxflame.tumblr.com/post/93470214333/agentwashingtons-wanna-read-a-fic-where-tucker) fantastic and intriguing headcanon. not as shippy as i wanted it to be, but hey ho. warnings for transphobia, discussions of transphobia and self-image issues. as always, i’m a cis lady, so please tell me if i’ve done something wrong.

“Why d’you never take your helmet off?” asks Tucker, during a particularly brutal leg day.

He’s not sure why the fact he’s never seen Wash’s face occurs to him as he’s taking a breather from six laps, but it does. His legs are on fire, air like rocks in his lungs, and he can’t seem to get the fact that all he knows of Wash’s appearance is his height out of his mind.

“That’s none of your business, Private Tucker,” says Wash, stiffly. “Another two laps. Come on.”

Unfortunately, Tucker isn’t in the habit of just dropping things. Especially if asking about them will delay the time until he has to run another two laps. He hooks fingers under the catches of his own helmet, pries it off with a series of small clicks as the locks and magnets disengage, sets it down by his feet. “See?” he says, grinning wide and sunny, teeth a flash of white against the darkness of his face – a face that must be familiar to Wash by now, given his dislike of armour (or clothes in general). “Easy.”

“No means no, Private Tucker.” There’s something tight in Wash’s voice that Tucker manages to miss between the tiredness and the insatiable curiosity, and so he doesn’t drop it.  
“C’mon. Just a quick peek. What’re you trying to hide?” He grins wider. “I bet you’ve got a really ugly nose or something. Or pimples.”

“Stop being ridiculous and run the damn laps!” If Tucker doesn’t shut up, Wash is going to lose his patience. He can feel it, deep somewhere in the pit of his stomach and between his shoulder blades, the itching kind of irritation that usually ends with him shooting something.

“Just take the damn thing off!” says Tucker, louder than intended and kind of frustrated. He’s known this guy for over a year, now, has trusted him with his safety and his life and the lives of the people he’s come to call friends. He kind of feels like he has a right to know what the guy they’re all relying on to save them looks like.

“Fine!”

The words spill out of Wash’s mouth without his permission, and set his stomach twisting. He doesn’t want to take off his helmet. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to take off his helmet. He now kind of _has_ to take off his helmet.

(Fuck.)

He pulls his helmet off slowly, reluctantly, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight without the filter system in his visor. He blinks once, twice – sees the dawning look of realisation at the thin arch of his eyebrows, the narrowness of his nose, the length of his eyelashes, the roundness of his cheeks. It makes him grit his teeth, hating the scrutiny of it. The feeling of being a fish in a fishbowl for people to gawp at.

There’s a beat of silence, where Wash thinks maybe Tucker will, for once, manage to keep his mouth shut. And another. And then… “Dude’s a lady!” says Tucker, surprise thick in his voice and his eyebrows climbing into his hairline.

Wash punches him in the face.

He doesn’t really care that he still has the rest of his power armour on and Tucker’s not wearing his helmet, doesn’t really care about the crunch he hears when his fist makes contact. Is aware that he probably put enough power behind that blow that he’s lucky not to have snapped Tucker’s neck, and doesn’t really care about that either.

There’s anger – _righteous_ anger – singing in his veins, and his vision’s hazing red as he watches Tucker go down heavily, and stay down. Tucker’s nose is bleeding, quite possibly broken, and his eyes are closed. Unconscious.

Fingers still curled into a fist, Wash leaves him lying in the dirt and goes to pick up his helmet.

-

“I guess I deserved that,” says Tucker, later on, pressing a cold pack to the purple bruise over his left cheek and eye. There’s a wad of tissue stuffed up each nostril that’s slowly turning crimson, and something vicious and angry deep in the pit of Wash’s stomach is _pleased_ with just how badly he’s damaged Tucker.

“Yeah,” he says, face safely concealed behind his mirrored helmet visor again so Tucker can’t see the smouldering anger in his eyes. “Yeah, you did.”

Tucker smiles crookedly, eyes sad. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I thought- y’know, after Tex and the whole voice-changer thing... I didn’t realise you were actually a dude. Sorry.”

 _Actually a dude_. The phrasing makes Wash crook an eyebrow, unexpected from someone who’d made a comment out of what he’d assumed was ignorance at best and transphobia at worst. The surprise goes unseen beneath his helmet, though, and he clears his throat a little to cover the awkward pause. “Thank you,” he says, a little stiffly. “For your apology.”

It’s not enough to fix things, nowhere near, but it’s a start.

-

They need to talk about it. That’s why Wash corners Tucker two days later when it’s quiet and sits him down – not because he _wants_ to have this discussion, but because they need to have it. He can’t have Tucker saying stuff like that again, _won’t_ have Tucker saying stuff like that again.

(He also knows he’s damn lucky he didn’t snap Tucker’s neck with that punch, and as much as Tucker annoys him, he doesn’t want the guy _dead_.)

“Do you understand why I was so angry with what you said the other day?” he asks, when Tucker’s sat down and has stopped fidgeting and complaining about how much his legs hurt after all those laps. He keeps his words clear, to the point, and decides he doesn’t care that he sounds a little like he’s talking to a child.

Tucker nods, doesn’t whine about being patronised, which is a relief. “Because I called you a lady, and you’re a dude,” he says, and then pauses when Wash doesn’t say anything in response to that. “Wait- are you a dude? Or are you non-binary or something?”

The words are casual and comfortable enough that Wash feels a slow wave of relief roll through him. At least he won’t have to do a Trans 101 class here – he’s not really sure he has the energy or patience for that right now.

“I’m a trans man,” he says, keeping his voice even despite the irritation at just the _memory_ of the incident. He doesn’t want to turn this into a fight. This is about trying to _explain_ things to Tucker; he got most of his desire for physical violence dealt with when he broke the guy’s nose. “Which is why being- why what you said was Not Okay.” He manages to put capitals onto the words just with his voice, a skill he’s spent years honing. “Being misgendered is… kind of crap.”

“I know,” says Tucker, quietly, and Wash snorts.  
“Do you?” he says. “Do you _really_? I don’t think you do – I don’t think you have any idea.”

How the hell can Tucker (perhaps not the definition of manliness but still undeniably masculine and muscled and hard-edged and flat-chested) have any idea at all what the sick roll of _not right_ deep in the pit of Wash’s stomach feels like? He can’t. He just can’t.

“Oh,” says Tucker, and there’s an _edge_ to his voice that both intrigues Wash and puts his back up ever so slightly. “I think I do.”  
“How?” asks Wash, not meaning to sound challenging and disbelieving, but managing it all the same. “How the hell would you know what- what being misgendered feels like?” All his attempts to be calm and non-confrontational seem to have gone out the window.

This is not how he wanted this conversation to go.

Tucker laughs at that, a slightly bitter sound, and shakes his head. “Dude, you’re talking to the guy that gave birth to an alien baby. How the hell do you think I managed that?”

The sudden topic change throws him. A little uncomfortable, Wash shrugs one shoulder. “I just figured… I don’t know? It… came out of your butt, or- or something?” Even as he says it, he realises how ridiculous it sounds, but it’s true. He’d never really thought of it.

“You _what_?” The laughter’s more genuine this time, shocked out of Tucker by the sheer absurdity of the statement. “Okay, okay. First, my kid is not an _it_. Junior’s a he, okay? And second, _ew_ , dude. _Ew._ How much bad sci fi have you been watching?”

“Shut up,” mutters Wash, cheeks going a little pink, and yet again he’s grateful for the fact he has his helmet to cover his face. Sometimes it’s annoying, claustrophobic, but most of the time the usefulness of having his face obscured far outweighs the downsides of constantly breathing recycled and filtered air. “I… don’t know, okay? It wasn’t something I really thought about.”

Instead of responding, Tucker grabs the bottom of his shirt, drags it up under his armpits for a second before letting the fabric fall again. It’s brief, but it’s long enough for Wash to see the tight, distinctive lines of a binder wrapped around his upper chest. Long enough for his mouth to fall open.

“I’m on T, have been since I was in my early teens, but I never had any surgery or anything. The T means I’m pretty flat chested, so the binding’s not too bad, but…” Tucker shrugs. “Never seemed to be a right time to get anything sorted out, y’know?” He doesn’t look uncomfortable, per se, but there’s a slight wariness in his eyes as he takes in Wash’s gawping.

The _really a dude_ comment makes sense now.

“If you- why did you say- _that_? About me?” asks Wash, at a little bit of a loss.

Tucker winces, cheeks colouring faintly. “I’m really fucking sorry about that, by the way. But- like I said, when we first met Tex, she was using this- this voice changer thing or whatever. It made her sound like a dude; we _thought_ she was a dude, until it broke.”

He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, doesn’t make eye contact. “Thought it was the same situation with you – girl using a voice changer. I fucked up. Sorry.”

This time, the apology doesn’t just feel like meaningless words. The memory of what Tucker said still makes his blood sing with anger, still makes him feel a little sick when he thinks about it, but… it was a mistake. An honest-to-god mistake. Which shouldn’t make it better but it _does_ , somehow.

He feels like he should still be angry about it, maybe, but he can’t quite find it in himself to be anything other than happy that he’s finally, _finally_ found someone else that _gets_ it.

-

“I was going to go on T,” says Wash, quietly.

Tucker, curled in the corner and nursing a cup of coffee – despite the fact it’s rapidly approaching midnight, and the caffeine can’t exactly be helping him to sleep – looks up from the tablet on his lap. He doesn’t say anything, but he does raise an encouraging eyebrow, and Wash swallows.

“I was- kind of late, realising things. By the time I realised I was a guy, I was already involved in the war effort. Not exactly a great place to start transitioning.” He huffs out a quiet laugh, rubs nervous fingers over the calves of his crossed legs with the scrape of metal on metal. “Then I got drafted into Project Freelancer, and… well. They had the money, the means. The time and inclination to have their soldiers in optimum condition.”

There’s a few moments of silence, heavy in the low, bluish light of the rigged-up Blue base common room. “…And?” asks Tucker, quiet and encouraging.

“And then Epsilon happened.” Wash curls a hand around one ankle, letting the motion ground him. It’s not quite as good as skin against skin, but he’s used to it. Spending every minute he’s not asleep – and a far amount of the time he is, too – in armour has forced him to get used to it. “I- didn’t care about much after that, for a while.”

He doesn’t go into any more detail than that. Doesn’t talk about how, in the weeks after Epsilon dug claws into his brain and _ripped_ , he didn’t feel like anything, how in the months after he felt more machine than human. Doesn’t say that, even as Recovery One, he barely felt alive.

“And then I was arrested, and the prison weren’t exactly inclined to help with my transition. Then I was out, with the Meta- hunting you.” He doesn’t mention that he was promised gender reassignment surgery along with his freedom if he retrieved the Epsilon unit. “After that… everything was sort of chaos. And now we’re here.”

Tucker huffs out a small noise of sympathetic amusement. “Not much testosterone in the jungle,” he says, quietly, drumming his fingers against the edge of his tablet.  
“No,” agrees Wash, and then pauses, as he realises the full implications of that statement. “Tucker. Are you-?”

“I’m fine,” Tucker assures him, lips twitching into what is probably supposed to be a reassuring smile. It comes off as nervous instead, worry around the edges despite his outward calm. “I had some with me when we crashed, and if worst comes to worst I’ve got an implant that’ll keep things running until I can get more.” He rubs the pad of his thumb over a small scar on  his left shoulder, eyes thoughtful.

The emergency implants are new technology, suboptimal at best and unreliable at worst, Wash knows – hence why Tucker still, apparently, has shots, despite the implant – but they’re better than nothing. It’ll last Tucker until they get rescued, hopefully.

“Good,” says Wash, with such sincerity that Tucker blink in surprise. “That’s- good.”  
“Yeah?” agrees Tucker. There’s a question in his voice, as if he’s not quite sure where to go from there.

Neither of them are, really, and silence falls between them. Tucker turns back to whatever he’s looking at on his tablet – Wash hopes to god it’s not porn, but it’s probably porn – and Wash goes back to disassembling and cleaning each of his guns in turn.

It’s not exactly buddy-buddy friendly, but it’s… companionable. Wash really can’t ask for more than that.

(Can’t _let_ himself ask for more than that, anyways. Not right now.)

-

A week after that particular conversation, Washington comes down to eat breakfast without his armour on.

His hair’s styled as it always is, short on the sides and long to the point of messy on the top. Between that, the wiry muscle he has as a result of his days in Project Freelancer and his adventures as Blue team leader, and the (slightly ill fitting, considering he borrowed it from Tucker) binder tight around his chest, he feels… pretty good about himself, actually.

Despite the short hair, the muscles, and the flat chest, though, he knows he’s not passing. Not even close. His face, no matter what he does with it, remains irritatingly feminine.

Tucker nearly drops the mug of black coffee he’s holding when Wash walks in. He may have seen the guy with his helmet off, but it’s not quite the same as seeing him completely out of armour, and it feels almost _wrong_. He feels uncomfortably voyeuristic, as if Wash’s walking around naked rather than in normal clothing.

He doesn’t let that show, though. Instead, he takes a mouthful of coffee, gags a little at how bitter it is, and says, “Morning, Wash.”

Wash stares at him for a second, hunching so deeply into the hoodie he’s wearing despite the heat it looks like he’s trying to turn himself into a turtle. “Good morning, Private,” he says, notes the aborted blink-twitch motion Tucker makes as he registers how much higher, how much less gravelly Wash’s voice is without the voice synthesiser in his helmet to change it.

“Coffee?” he asks, when he’s processed this new information about Wash. He holds his own cup up by way of demonstration, smiles when Wash nods, and busies himself with the coffee machine. Having something to with his hands eases the faint awkwardness hovering over the room, dampens the steady roll of nerves he can feel coming off Wash in waves.

Wash swallows, swallows again, and lets himself drop into one of the salvaged chairs surrounding the pile of crates they call their kitchen table. For a long, blissful moment, silence reigns in the room, and some of the tension slips from Wash’s shoulders.

And then Caboose notices the fact he’s in the room.

“Mr. Washingtub?” asks Caboose, looking up from his bowl of steadily softening cornflakes with a look of amazement on his face. Wash isn’t sure where he found either cornflakes or milk on a spaceship that’s been crashed for several weeks, but he’s not about to ask. He kind of _really_ doesn’t want to know the answer.

Instead, he braces himself for the kind of spectacularly ignorant comments he’s come to expect from Caboose in the time he’s known him.

They don’t come. “You are not wearing your armour!” says Caboose instead, staring at Wash like he’s some kind of sparkly object. There’s amazement written all over his face, eyes wide as he looks Wash over once, and then beams. “You have very nice eyelashes. They are very long and pretty.”

The _pretty_ makes Wash’s stomach twist; but it’s more of a twinge than a full-on knife to the guts, which surprises him. He’s not sure when the last time he heard a feminine descriptor directed at him that didn’t make him want to vomit, but it’s… nice.

“Thanks, Caboose,” he says, quietly. There’s not much sincerity in it, but Caboose beams at him anyways. It’s one of the nice things about Caboose, actually – as annoying as he can be, it’s reasonably guaranteed that, whatever’s going on, he’ll be smiling.

What’s one of the less nice things about him, though, is his inability to tell when someone else isn’t exactly in the mood for conversation. “How did you get your eyelashes so nice, Agent Washingtub?”

Wash huffs out a laugh, drags a hand through his hair to settle the steady thrum of his nerves. It’s weird, being able to feel skin beneath his fingers when he touches himself. “Estrogen,” he says, shortly, hears an echoed bark of laughter across the room from Tucker as he fiddles with the coffee machine.

“I had estrogen once,” says Caboose, after a moment. Wash blinks – and then reminds himself that this is Caboose he’s talking to. “It was not very nice. It was sort of purple, and squishy, and kind of gross, and Church yelled at me when I spat it out.” He sighs. “I miss Church.”

(Most conversations with Caboose at the moment revolve around the fact that he misses Church.)

Tucker snorts, and shakes his head. “That’s not estrogen, idiot,” he says, and there’s fondness under the irritation in his voice that Wash is only just learning to hear. “That’s eggplant.” He sets a cup of black coffee down in front of Wash, claps a brief, hesitant hand on his shoulder, and then drops down into the seat next to him to nurse his own mug.

“No, no, I am pretty sure it was estrogen,” says Caboose, thoughtfully, chewing on a mouthful of cornflakes so soggy they’re falling apart on his spoon. “I do not like estrogen.”  
“Agreed,” says Tucker, with feeling. “But it’s still fucking eggplant, dude.”

“Estrogen,” says Caboose, through a mouthful of cornflakes.  
“Eggplant,” Tucker retorts, and sticks his tongue out because he has all the maturity of a two year old.

“Estrogen.”  
“Eggplant.”  
“Estrogen.”  
“Eggplant…”  
“I am really very sure it was estrogen.”

Wash listens to them bicker, familiar background noise by this point. He closes his eyes, sips his coffee, and relishes in being able to wear normal clothes without feeling _wrong_ for the first time in years.

-

By some unspoken agreement, they all take the rest of the day off. Wash doesn’t change back into his armour, Tucker doesn’t change out of his ‘sleep clothes’ – a term Wash uses loosely, given his habit of sleeping naked – and Caboose decides to put on every single item of clothing he owns for reasons that escape both Tucker and Wash.

It makes him happy, though, and is an activity that has a low chance of him managing to set anything on fire, so they don’t complain.

“Do you think we should… try and explain it to him?” asks Wash, where he and Tucker are sat watching Caboose methodically put every pair of socks he can fit on, and then start searching for other areas on his body he can put them, all in aid of apparently having a slumber party.

“What?” asks Tucker, looking up from what is quite possibly his hundredth cup of coffee that day. “The whole trans thing? Nah.”  
“Because he won’t understand?” asks Wash, feeling slightly offended on Caboose’s behalf. Caboose might have a slightly… unique way of processing the world, but he’s pretty sure if small children can grasp the concept, Caboose can too.

Tucker shakes his head, though. “I don’t think he’d really care,” he says, thoughtfully. “Doesn’t seem to have the strongest grasp of genders anyways. I remember in basic training, it took us _forever_ to get him to stop calling everyone out of armour _he_ and everyone in armour s _he_.” At Wash’s questioning glance, he elaborates. “Apparently, wherever he was recruited, there was a lady wearing armour and a dude not wearing armour and he assumed that was what pronouns were for. English isn’t his first language.”

Wash isn’t really sure what to say to that, other than, “How…?” English as a second language or not, he doesn’t know how someone can mess up pronouns that badly – although this _is_ Caboose they’re talking about.

“He’s from the Moon,” says Tucker, shrugging, as if that answers everything. “Who the fuck knows if they even _have_ genders there?”

Wash is pretty sure they have genders on the Moon, but he’s not about to get into a debate with Tucker right now. “Who knows,” he repeats quietly, watches Caboose pull yet another sweater – that definitely isn’t his, if the indignant yelp from Tucker beside him is anything to go by – over his head, and manages a small smile at the look of delight on his teammate’s face when he manages to get it to fit.

-

The no-armour thing carries on for the rest of the week, and the week after that. They don’t take any more days off – the day after their break, Wash has them training twice as hard, despite Tucker’s whining about the heat and how his legs hurt and how Wash is a cruel slave driver – but Wash comes down to breakfast without armour a few times, takes his armour off at the end of the day a few times.

Outside the base, though, the helmet and the armour stays on. Red Team have yet to give up on their random attacks or attempts at infiltration – both of which are mostly Sarge yelling incoherently at them from a safe distance, backed up by Grif and Simmons – and Wash doesn’t really feel like explaining things to them, which he’ll have to do if they see him helmet-less.

Not yet, anyways. Maybe soon, but not yet.

(Aside from that, there’s still that crawling sensation down his spine that Tucker calls paranoia and he calls intuition. Something’s not right with this canyon, with this whole damn _planet_ , and he’s not taking his helmet off in the open until he’s sure it’s not going to end up with a bullet through his skull.)

-

It’s two weeks after the no-armour-at-breakfast occurrence that Tucker hugs him.

They’re both standing in the corridor, Caboose already in bed (they hope, or there’ll be more fires to put out in the morning). “Good night, Private” says Washington, hears Tucker echo a much more casual version back to him – and then suddenly he’s got an armful of warm body, a head tucked into his neck, the soft scratch of Tucker’s uncontrollable dreads against his chin.

It’s enough of a surprise that he freezes up, isn’t sure what to do with his arms, isn’t even sure he’s supposed to be reciprocating. “Uh.” Wash clears his throat in a half-cough, and Tucker pulls back like he’s been burned – blinks when he sees the slightly disappointed expression on Wash’s face, like he hadn’t intended for Tucker to interpret that as _get off_. Even though he sort of had, because this is utterly inappropriate as Tucker’s commanding officer. “Um.”

(He tries not to think about how it’s kind of appropriate, though, as Tucker’s friend.)

There’s an awkward pause for a half-second, and then Tucker rubs the back of his neck with one anxious hand, half-grins. “Uh. Like I said. Night?” He drags a hand through his dreads and all but sprints down the lopsided corridor towards his room, away from Wash and towards the relative, non-embarrassing safety of his own room.

Wash nods vaguely at Tucker’s disappearing back, slinks back into his bedroom and shuts the makeshift door behind him. In the privacy of the closed, dark space, he wraps his own arms around his torso – letting his hands rest over the points Tucker’s had, feeling the pressure of the gesture against his skin.

He tries not to think about the fact that he’s just had his first skin-to-skin contact with another person for _years_ , his first hug out of armour for even longer than that, as he lays down on the pile of blankets that’s currently serving as his bed and wills himself to sleep.

-

“So,” says Tucker, a few days later, during a break from running laps around the canyon. There’s a few seconds’ pause – which Wash waits through patiently because Tucker’s bent double with his hands on his knees and is wheezing with every exhale – and then he finally manages to finish, “I talked to Simmons.”

It’s a sort of non-sequitur, the way he says it, as if Wash had _asked_ him to talk to Simmons. As if talking to Simmons is something anyone on Blue team even _does_. Despite Wash’s attempts to advocate inter-team communication in the face of disaster, the Blues only ever seem to talk to the Reds when they’re threatening to kill each other.

Some of his confusion must show on his face, because Tucker draws in another few wheezing breaths before forging onwards. “He’s pretty good with computers. _Nerd_. Anyway, I was talking to him, and he reckons-”

Tucker pauses again, and this time it’s not because he’s out of breath. There’s a sort of wariness in his eyes, as if he’s not quite sure how what he’s about to say is going to go down.

“He said he thinks he could get it so command sends us twice the doses of T that they do at the moment.” Tucker pauses, clears his throat a little, squares his shoulders. “Once we get back to Valhalla, y’know. Considering we’ve got no contact with _anyone_ at the moment, let alone command.”

A hundred things run through Wash’s mind. They start with _holy crap_ , because he’s been waiting for this since he was twenty, been waiting for what feels like his whole _life_. They end with, _why didn’t you mention Simmons earlier_ ; because computer skills are valuable, computer skills are something he can work with. Computer skills could be what gets them off this godforsaken space rock.

He doesn’t say any of that, thought.

“Good work, Private Tucker,” is what he says, grateful that the voice synthesiser takes some of the shake out of the words. “But don’t think that’s getting you out of doing those next sets of laps.”

The noise Tucker lets out is somewhere between a howl and a groan, and he lets himself collapse face first into the dirt as it tapers off. “I hate you,” he says, with feeling. “So much. _So_ , so much.”  
“The feeling’s mutual,” Wash assures him, dryly. “Now get going.”

He stands and watches as Tucker picks himself up, brushes the dirt off his knees and sets off at a painfully slow (although not as painfully slow as it was a week ago) jog around the canyon perimeter. His angry muttering filters over the radio until Wash mutes it, watches in silence with a smile until Tucker disappears behind a rock by Red base.


End file.
